


But I haven't seen Barbados

by oldwickedsongs



Category: Dracula (1931)
Genre: Abuse, Drug Abuse, M/M, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldwickedsongs/pseuds/oldwickedsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renfield awaits the Count...</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I haven't seen Barbados

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarecrowes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/gifts).



The hand around his throat is icy and sharp and there’s a brief enough moment between actually praying for death and fearing it that Renfield has exacting clarity about the Count. He needs Renfield. It’s more than the practical; open doors and invitations. It’s a deep-in- the-marrow want.

He holds no presumptions about himself, no grand ideas of his worth in the long run. He’s dirt on the Count’s feet, the muck on his cape. 

But there’s a desperation, centuries old, in the grip around his throat. There’s need, heady, obscene and only his in how Dracula pushes his cheek across Renfield’s throat at first; like a wolf marking his prey- like a courtier with his dame. It prickles like dry ice, makes his breath catch and he hardens in desire. He already knows how the terrible dance will play out, resigned and almost wondering if this will be the time when he takes too much- when there will be no more mornings.

He isn’t sure what he longs for more, the bite or the end.

He can’t scream, not with Dracula’s palm pushed against his apple. He wouldn’t scream even if he could because he belongs to his Master and it’s his honor to do this. To be wanted, and fed on like Christ with his disciples. This is sacred. Holy.

Later, crushed into bed and trembling because of the orderlies and their hoses- with the morphine pumping a fever into his blood, Renfield’s sticky fingers will find those small pricks against his throat and tap out a message that means nothing but the cadence comforts him.

He belongs, he taps out excitedly, he is owned and one day soon he’ll be claimed by it.


End file.
